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Gulls shrieked, their voices fierce and mournful in the
distance. Sheep bleated, closer by. The morning mist curled
around Penelope Talcott as she carefully picked her way
along the rough, sloping lane that wound its way up the
Downs from the sea. She pulled her cloak around her against
the damp, then turned and looked back down the way she had
come.

Yesterday, this vantage point had afforded a fine view
of Brighton, with its elegant terraces and the outlandish
domes of the Royal Pavilion, all backed by a sea sparkling
in the July sun. Today, the prospect was wreathed in an
unseasonable fog.

Pen sighed. It seemed she had brought her sketchbook in
vain. Moreover, coming here alone was likely to bring Aunt
Mary’s recriminations down on her head. But she could not
have dragged her maid along with her, not when poor Susan
was suffering from a cold, and to miss her morning walk was
to miss the best part of the day. Well, if she couldn’t
draw, she could still relish the solitude, the sea-breezes,
the smell of the damp earth and the grass on the open,
treeless hillside.

She walked on, then paused, feeling a sudden sense of
foreboding. Above her, a large figure loomed in the mist,
still at some distance. She could faintly hear the clomping
of boots. Most likely it was some farm laborer or shepherd.
So why did she feel ready to jump out of her skin, like a
nervous hare?

On impulse, she turned and scrambled over the low stone
wall that separated the track from a broad sheep-pasture,
hoping she hadn’t been seen. She crouched, setting the
basket that held her blanket, sketchbook and chalks down
beside her. Now she could hear the man’s footsteps more
clearly. She kept very quiet, watching through a chink in
the wall as the man’s outline slowly became more distinct.
A big man, dressed in a laborer’s smock, a rough sack slung
over his shoulder. His eyes, small and pale-blue in a broad
and weather-beaten face, framed with pale dirty hair. Just
a farm laborer, she told herself. Yet her sense of dread
increased as he approached. Her heart continued to hammer
in her chest as he passed her hiding place and continued
out of sight down the track, into the mist.

She stood and brushed grass off her dress with trembling
fingers. Aunt Mary often chided her for her active
imagination, but Pen could not rid herself of the feeling
that the man presented some sort of threat. She took a deep
breath, telling herself not to be such a nervous ninny.
After she waited a few minutes, the sense of evil, if evil
it was, decreased. Limbs still trembling slightly, she
started to make her way down the hillside, avoiding sheep-
droppings and the occasional gorse bush as best she could,
making for the gate at the bottom of the field. Best not to
climb over the wall again and risk tearing her dress, even
if it was her oldest and shabbiest. The breeze picked up as
she walked, and the mists parted slightly.

Then she became aware of the sound of hoof beats
somewhere to her left. She turned her gaze in their
direction to see a tall gentleman approaching, riding a
dark horse. Was he the source of her unease? She didn’t
think so; in fact, something seemed familiar about the
pair.

Could it be Lord Verwood? One of Aunt Mary’s gossiping
bosom-bows had said he’d come to Brighton, and that he was
currently paying court to a virtuous married lady. So like
him to be meddling where he was not wanted! She hoped they
would not meet again, for he never failed to disturb her
tranquility.

Distracted, Pen allowed her foot to slip. She went down,
tumbling a half-dozen yards and coming to a stop at the
bottom of the pasture, a short distance from the gate.
Right in the path of the horse and rider, approaching at a
brisk canter. She lay stunned, unable to breathe, unable to
will her limbs to move in the few precious seconds before
she was trampled.

The horseman must have seen her in time, for he reined
in his mount a few yards away. He glanced down at her with
familiar, penetrating eyes of a brown so dark they were
almost black, and her earlier suspicion was confirmed.

He came forward, his horse’s reins looped around one
arm, and knelt down beside her. She sat up, trying to catch
her breath, and shook her head.

“You know, you really must rid yourself of this
distressing habit you have of tumbling down in front of
me,” he said, the amusement in his voice thinly veiled.

“I . . . could not . . . help it,” she said, between
breaths. Heat flooded her face as she looked up into his.
At least this time he did not look as angry as on that
occasion in Hyde Park when she had first met him.

“Of course not,” he replied, in a soothing tone. “I am
certain you could not help flinging yourself at my feet in
Hyde Park, either. On that occasion, if I recall correctly,
you were there to berate me for making off with your
friend. I cannot imagine your purpose now.”

“Had I known you would ride here this morning,” she
said, straightening her bonnet, “I should not have come
this way.”

“A pity,” he said, with a smile. “Perhaps you will tell
me what you are doing here all by yourself?”

“I merely wished to go for a walk, and my maid is
unwell,” she said, accepting his arm as he helped her to
her feet and trying to ignore the strength in his
clasp. “Who are you to lecture me on propriety?”

“I am the last man in the world to lecture any female on
propriety. I am merely curious.”

She picked up her basket and turned to walk toward the
gate. He chose to lead his horse beside her, making her
uncomfortably conscious of his broad shoulders and muscular
limbs, which a perfectly tailored blue coat and creaseless
breeches did nothing to disguise.

“So tell me. Are you enjoying Brighton, Miss Talcott?”

“Not at all.”

“I suppose, unlike your relations, you have no taste for
expensive frivolity.”

“I suppose you have come to Brighton for your health,”
she said, making no attempt to veil her sarcasm.

“Of course.”

“Then you must take the waters of St. Anne’s Well.
According to Dr. Relhan, they are most beneficial to
bodies ‘laboring under the consequences of irregular living
and illicit pleasures.’”

He laughed aloud. “Touché, Miss Talcott. You are no
doubt correct, and I shall seek out St. Anne’s Well
instantly. I only trust the waters are not too vile for my
palate.”

She remained silent. A minute or two and they would
reach the gate. She would be rid of him.

A lump came to Pen’s throat at the thought of Catherine,
so happy with her Mr. Woodmere up in the Lakes, and
Juliana, who had last written to her from Venice where she
and her new husband, the Earl of Amberley, were taking
their honeymoon. They had become fast friends while at Miss
Stratton’s select school for young ladies, where they’d
been dubbed the “Three Disgraces”. Pen would never forget
how Cat and Jule had defended her against the catty set on
her arrival at the school, or the madcap escapades they’d
drawn her into, like the time they had run away to a local
fair disguised as boys.

“My friends are very well,” she replied simply.

“I am glad to hear it.”

There was an odd tone in Verwood’s silky voice, sincere
but also somehow regretful. Each time he had become
involved in her friends’ affairs, he’d claimed to have good
intentions. Pen still did not know whether to believe him.
Did he cherish a tendre for one of them? Or was it merely
his pride that smarted after he’d twice been foiled in his
mysterious schemes?

She glanced over and noted that his handsome profile
showed no sign now of the punishment it had received a few
months earlier at the hands of a rival for Juliana’s
favors. It was a mistake to look. Her eyes were
irresistibly drawn to his high forehead, dramatically
arched brows, his rather long nose and chin and wide
sensual lips, features that all seemed too strong
individually but made for a masculine, beautiful whole.

Drat! Now he was smiling at her wickedly, as if he found
her attractive as well. Why did he make the effort? She was
no acclaimed Beauty, like Catherine or Juliana, or the most
recent object of his desires, Lady Everton. Small, red-
haired and freckled, Pen could have no power to attract
such a connoisseur of the female sex, even if she wished to
do so.

Verwood was dangerous; it was even said that he’d
seduced and abandoned a young lady of quality. Pen was not
the sort of fool who thought it romantic to reform a rake;
she had set her heart on quite a different sort of man.
Cyril Welling had all the qualities she desired in a
husband; he was honest, trustworthy and kind. What did it
matter that Verwood was so darkly beautiful, his tall
person so well-formed that she ached to sketch him, to
capture every expression, the curve and shading of every
muscle?

She increased her pace, desperately summoning up the
image of Cyril to her mind in an effort to banish her
consciousness of Lord Verwood. She did not go more than a
few steps before tumbling face-first onto the muddy ground
once more.

“What the devil-” Verwood cursed behind her. She rolled
over, and saw him release his horse and come to her once
more.

“Are you all right?” he asked, kneeling beside her.

She nodded, having had the wind knocked out of her
again. He put one arm around her shoulder and helped her to
sit up. She gasped, and inhaled the mingled scent of
cloves, lavender and horses.

“I cannot . . . imagine how I could have been so . . .
clumsy . . . again,” she said.

“Shh . . . Do not move,” he commanded softly. Obedient
but puzzled, she watched as he sprang up and went toward
the wall. Then she saw the strong, slender cord tangled
around her ankle.

Tracing it with her eyes, she saw that it had been
fastened between the stone wall and a gorse-bush, at just
the proper height to trip up an unwary walker. Or a horse.

Heart thudding again, she watched Verwood pace along the
wall, peering over it. Then Verwood turned and strode to
the gate, turning his head to gaze up and down the lane. He
returned to her, his expression grim.

“This,” she gestured toward the cord, “was not intended
for me, was it?”

He shook his head, then knelt to remove the cord from
her foot. A tingle rose from her ankle where his deft hands
touched her stocking. She tried to ignore it, but her face
warmed as he gently wiped the dirt from her cheek with his
handkerchief, then helped her up once more.

Then an image assaulted her, of him and his horse lying
broken and mangled on the cold ground, their grace and
beauty destroyed forever. Her knees buckled, and Verwood
held her close against him to keep her from falling. She
took in a gulp of air, comforted by the feel of his warm,
living, breathing body against hers. She stared up at him
for a moment, then before she knew what was happening, he
lowered his head and brushed her lips with his. For an
instant, new and potent sensations surged through her. Then
Verwood lifted his head and smiled, looking odiously self-
satisfied.

After a dazed moment, she jerked out of his arms. “What
do you take me for, some sort of - of trollop?” she
demanded, voice shaking with embarrassment and fury. “Why
did you do that?”

“The temptation was irresistible,” he said,
grinning. “You must forgive me. I shan’t do it again -
unless you desire it, of course.”

“Certainly not,” she said, shocked. “It is not the time
for such nonsense. Have you forgotten that someone has just
tried to do you a serious injury?”

“No. I must thank you,” he said, in a more sober
tone. “Had I galloped into this, my horse and I would
certainly have gone tail over top. You spared us a most
embarrassing fall.”

She glanced over at his horse, calmly cropping grass
nearby.

“I am not an idiot, my lord. It could have been far
worse than a mere fall. You could have broken your neck.”

He said nothing, but the lines around his mouth
tightened. Her mind raced. After her fall, he had carefully
surveyed their surroundings. Why?

“You do not think . . . that someone could have been
waiting behind the wall, to - to?”

To finish off the job.

It was too lurid to say, so far from anything she had
ever experienced. He continued to look grave and did not
deny it, as she half-hoped. She lifted a hand to her mouth
as a faint sense of nausea stole over her.

“Do not look so distressed. There is no one nearby. If
anyone was here, he was frightened off by the presence of a
witness.”

“Who would wish to harm you?” she asked, her voice
breaking. “Who would have known you would ride this way?”

He shrugged, from ignorance or a desire to keep his own
counsel. Knowing his reputation, Pen felt certain he had
his enemies. But what could he have done to merit an
attempt on his life? How could he look so calm?

“Don’t you even care that someone tried to hurt you?”
she demanded.

“Does the thought fill you with dismay, Miss Talcott? I
confess, I’m delighted.” He even smiled.

“You are mad.”

“No, merely touched by your concern. I had no idea you
had so much charity for me.”

“I should be so concerned for any fellow being in
danger.”

“Of course.” His smile froze. “But your concern is
misplaced. I assure you, I can take care of myself.”

“Even though it was my presence that saved you this
time.”

“I am not so easily disposed of.”

Had there been previous attempts? “What will you do?”

“The less you know, the better. Your aunt will be
looking for you. Is it not time you returned to town?”

It felt like a snub. She’d saved his life, he’d kissed
her, and now she was being dismissed like a child. But how
could she help, and did she even care what became of the
rogue? She picked up her basket and walked on. A moment
later, Verwood rejoined her, having caught his horse.

“I request that you keep this incident to yourself. In
fact, it would be best if you forgot it entirely.”

“I do not think I will ever forget this,” she said,
opening the gate for him as he mounted his horse. “I will
remain silent, if that is your wish.”

“Good-day, Miss Talcott. And thank you again.”

He urged his horse into a trot, leaving her to marvel at
his sang-froid. Her own heart continued to race with the
memory of his kiss, and the thought that she might have
witnessed his murder.

It was then that she recalled the man she’d seen in the
lane and the menace she’d sensed in his presence.